


The Question

by Magfreak



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Missing Scene, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-08
Updated: 2016-10-08
Packaged: 2018-08-20 04:20:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8235887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Magfreak/pseuds/Magfreak
Summary: During the war, Sybil makes friends with an officer convalescing at Downton. Cora gets excited. Tom gets jealous. Series 2 canon through episode four.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Based on a prompt: While Downton is still a convalescent home, Sybil becomes friends with one of the young convalescent officers. As he is highborn, her parents are rather pleased, expecting more. Branson is less pleased. And Sybil seems to be totally unaware of all the trouble.
> 
> The story is structured a bit like a missing scene in series 2, episode 4, and begins right after the garage conversation in which Tom makes his infamous "randy officers" comment. If you haven't seen the epi recently, this is also the one in which Matthew and William go missing only to return in dramatic fashion while Mary is singing during the benefit concert. The timing of events on the show is never super clear, but in this version, the conversation between Tom and Sybil happens the day before the concert.

 

_What work? Bringing hot drinks to a lot of randy officers?_

The words continued to ring in Sybil's ears all the way back to the house. Her face felt flush with anger and something else that she couldn't— _wouldn't_ —identify.

She could have stayed there to argue with him and keep walking in the same circle they'd been walking in for months, doing the same dance around each other that they had begun in York. But what would be the point? She still had no answer to give him. Not the "yes" that he wanted and that would change their lives irrevocably. Not the "no" that would surely take him away from here, from her, forever. She couldn't bear the thought of the latter, but couldn't bring herself to face the former, not now that she'd been given the freedom to work and do something on her own, for and by herself. She wanted to relish in that freedom as long as she could before facing the inevitability of all that would come after, good and bad.

Which was why his words had stung. They were laced with a ribbon of truth that had been eating away at Sybil these last few weeks.

At the hospital, she was a nurse—a _real_ nurse who stitched wounds, assisted in surgeries and offered life-saving care to dying men. She was learning a bona fide profession, a _job_. At Downton Abbey, by contrast, she fluffed pillows, made beds, pushed wheelchairs . . . served tea. She was a nurse here only because she was on a schedule and because she wore the uniform. In every other respect, she was little more than a good and mindful hostess.

The idea of turning Downton into a convalescent home had been born of a tragedy, a lonely young man forced out into a world that was not ready to contend with the toll of war. The treatment offered here was not medical per se, but rather a special kind of attention that the men, weary from the horrors of battle, sorely needed. Sybil knew convalescent care was necessary. But was it what she had signed up for? What she had fought her parents to do?

Her parents, of course, were only too happy to have her at home instead of working shifts at the hospital (something she still did only because she insisted). At Downton, her mother kept an eye on the nursing schedules to ensure Sybil could still dress for dinner, have time to chit chat with her family in the drawing room and be forced to listen to her grandmother warn Carson about locking away the silver.

Was that all worth keeping Tom at arm's length? That had been his question tonight, a new version of the old one. The one she still couldn't answer.

It was late, so not wanting to draw too much attention to the fact that she'd escaped to the garage in lieu of having dinner with her family, Sybil went inside through the service entrance. The scullery maid was mopping the kitchen, and Sybil could hear Carson and Mrs. Hughes talking behind the closed door of the butler's pantry, but otherwise the servants hall was deserted. She marched up the stairs and, knowing sleep would not come easy tonight, headed to the library to look for something to read. Crossing the main hall, she saw Edith, who was stepping out of the parlor, where the patients all slept on small cots.

"What are you doing?" Edith asked her. "Where have you been?"

"I was heading to the library to get something new to read before bed," Sybil said, not bothering to answer the second question, knowing Edith likely wouldn't press her. "What are you doing in the patients' sleeping quarters?"

"I heard someone yelling, like he was having a nightmare or something, but I couldn't find anyone to help."

"I'll go," Sybil said, immediately turning and heading to the parlor.

"No, don't worry," Edith said, "I'll go fetch one of the nurses."

It was the wrong thing to say to Sybil in that moment, especially after what she'd had to hear from Tom. " _I_ am a nurse!"

The force of Sybil's words, if not their volume, took Edith aback, but before she could answer, Sybil was gone.

Sybil stepped quickly into the darkened room and could see on the far side, a cot jerking this way and that, illuminated by the moonlight coming in through the window. She tiptoed through the room, weaving carefully around the beds so as to move quickly but silently.

As she got closer, she saw that the man—young, not more than 30 years old—had a small fresh cut on his forehead, possibly from hitting his head on the railing at the head of the cot amid his thrashing. His eyes were open, but he continued to thrash about as if he were still in the middle of a bad dream. Sybil had been taught not to wake up a patient in the middle of a nightmare, lest he react violently, so she continued on to the back room for supplies. She grabbed some gauze and a bandage, and using a small pitcher of water that had been left on the head nurse's desk, she wet a small towel. She put it all in a small basin and walked back to the cot slowly.

In the few minutes she had taken to gather supplies, the man seemed to have calmed and his eyes were closed again. Sybil weighed whether to let him sleep or to wake him to bandage his cut, but as she kneeled down on the floor next to the cot, he opened his eyes again. He blinked at her several times, but said nothing.

"Are you feeling all right?" Sybil asked quietly. "You seem to have cut your forehead."

The man touched a spot above his right eye with his fingers, then pulled them back again. He seemed surprised to see blood dripping from them. "I didn't even notice."

"You were having a nightmare, I think, but I can clean it and get it bandaged."

The man pushed himself up and turned so his legs came over the side of the bed. He squinted his eye as blood began to drip down into it. "Bloody hell—oh, sorry."

Sybil snickered. "I've heard worse."

She sat down next to him and put her supplies on her other side. She took the wet towel and gently dabbed at the cut, wiping away the excess blood. Then, she placed the gauze over it and taped the bandage over.

"You're a good nurse," he said with a smile.

"I'm just glad to be of help," she said standing and gathering everything back in the small basin.

"Not many girls like you could handle it," he said. "In fact, I don't know of any others who've even tried."

"What do you mean girls like me?" She asked with a smirk, knowing exactly what he was implying. It was no secret among the patients that Sybil wasn't just a nurse, but a daughter of the house.

"Girls who've curtsied before the king."

"My sisters are helping with the effort too," Sybil said.

"Not like you."

"I wanted to learn how to do a job," she said shrugging her shoulders.

"Are you expecting to keep this up once the war is over?" he asked.

Sybil looked at the man for a moment and thought there was no reason not to be honest. "I hope to."

He laughed. "Do they welcome working women at court?"

Sybil rolled her eyes. "I honestly couldn't care less."

He laughed again. "I wasn't much for the season myself, but I now I wish I'd gotten a bit more dancing in."

"What makes you say . . ." Sybil had started to ask the question, but as she spoke the man pulled his legs back on the bed and Sybil saw that his left one ended just below the knee.

"I suppose it could be worse," he said humorlessly, not meeting her eyes.

"Yes," she said. "It could be _much_ worse."

"Well, good night Lady Sybil."

"Nurse Crawley, please. What's your name?"

"Captain Pierce to this lot," he said gesturing to the sea of cots. "Alistair to you."

"Goodnight, Captain Pierce," Sybil said. She was still a nurse, after all, and such familiarity was not allowed. Without giving him a chance to say more, she headed back to the nurse's station to leave the supplies and headed upstairs to bed.

**XXX**

The following morning Sybil woke early and dressed herself in her uniform even though she wasn't scheduled to start a shift until after luncheon. There wasn't anything else for her to do that morning, so she figured she might as well go see the head nurse to ask how she could be useful. She wasn't due for a hospital shift until the next day, so she'd only get to see Tom if she sought him out, which she wasn't quite ready to do. Sybil smiled at herself in the mirror, thinking of how easily he got under her skin.

_At the concert tonight_ , she thought _. That'll be punishment enough._

After a quiet breakfast with her father, she headed to the parlor, where porridge was being served to the patients. Sybil quickly spotted Nurse Brickle, the stout, humorless woman who was charged with the nursing schedules, and went over to ask if there was anything she could help with.

"I have something you could help with."

Sybil turned and saw Captain Pierce leaning on a pair of crutches and looking considerably less peaked than he had the previous evening.

"I'm perfectly capable of assigning my own nurses, Captain," responded Nurse Brickle.

"I need help practicing walking with my leg," Alistair said with a smile that Sybil guessed got him his way often.

"The same leg you've not wanted to use since it was sent here by your parents?" Nurse Brickle pressed.

"The very same," he answered. "I've had a change of heart. I'd like to try to walk with it, and I'd like Lady Sybil to help me."

"Nurse Crawley," Sybil and Nurse Brickle corrected him at the same time. Sybil smiled, glad to have the support of her superior.

Nurse Brickle sighed. She didn't like when men requested nurses. It usually led the young women down a dangerous path they were not prepared to tread. She had seen it all too often. Hard-working and usually level-headed girls charmed by officers whose higher station offered the promise of more but rarely yielded anything except a broken heart, at best, and a ruined reputation and a child to raise alone, at worst. Lady Sybil was different, but no less a target than the rest. And the rules couldn't change for her—Nurse Brickle knew that the young woman, conscientious as she was, would insist on it.

"Captain, I assign my nurses, not anyone else, and certainly not you. I'll have someone—"

"Nurse Brickle, a moment to discuss today's schedule, please."

Nurse Brickle, Sybil and Alistair all turned to see Cora approaching.

Alistair smiled brightly. "Lady Grantham, what an honor to see you this morning."

"Mr. Alistair Pierce?" Cora said, eyes widening in shock. "How many years has it been? I had no idea you were here at Downton. Have you been here long?"

"Only a couple of weeks," he said. "My injury has left me a bit out of sorts, so I didn't want to impose on the family by making my presence known."

Cora turned to Sybil. "Sybil, Mr. Pierce—oh, excuse me! I should address you by your rank."

"I'm a captain, Lady Grantham," he said, "but not particular about what I am called."

" _Captain_ Pierce and his parents, the earl and countess of Norfolk, came to dine with us in London several times during Edith's first season," Cora said, "but I am sorry to say we haven't seen much of him since."

"I joined the diplomatic corps, and then the army," Alistair replied. "London's diversions aren't really for me."

"Well then you'll find a kindred spirit in Sybil," Cora said tapping her daughter's chin playfully.

Alistair turned to Sybil and smiled warmly. "I think it's splendid that she's devoted herself to nursing. I was just asking Nurse Brickle, here, to assign her to help me learn to walk with my prosthetic leg, given how good she was with patching me up last night." He tapped the bandage over his right eyebrow.

"How lovely," Cora said, a plan forming in her mind. She tried to seek out Sybil's eyes, but Sybil was looking to Nurse Brickle, who was not happy about how things were unfolding.

"Actually, captain," Nurse Brickle said, "I'll have another nurse come by to help in just a moment."

"What?!" Cora said turning back to her. "Why?"

"I have my schedule made out already, Lady Grantham," the nurse said, not inclined to offer any explanations. "I'm afraid I can't make an exception."

"Oh, but the captain is a family friend," Cora said with a smile that could have cut glass. "I'm sure Sybil would enjoy caring for him. Surely an exception can be made in _this_ instance."

Sybil rolled her eyes. "Mama, please don't—"

"Oh, Sybil, Nurse Brickle is a kind woman and she won't mind making a change, will you, my dear?" Cora said. Nurse Brickle immediately recognized the seemingly light-hearted question for the unyielding command it clearly was.

Sybil was too mortified by her mother's condescension to say anything, and there was only so much pushing back a head nurse could do with the lady of the house.

Nurse Brickle swallowed her anger, choosing not to pick this battle. "Very well."

**XXX**

"Won't walking on the gravel be harder than the smooth floor of the main hall?"

"You requested my help, captain," Sybil said pushing him out the front door and onto the drive on his wheelchair, a cane lying across his lap. "That disqualifies you from questioning my methods."

He laughed. "See, I knew I made a good choice when I requested you."

"About that," Sybil said quietly, coming to a stop about thirty feet in front of the door.

"It was terribly gauche of me to put Nurse Brickle on the spot," Alistair said, "I know that and I apologize for it."

"Well, you should apologize to _her_ , and you must promise not to do it again. It's hard enough being taken seriously as a nurse without you or my mother pulling rank." Sybil walked around the wheelchair and stood in front of him.

Alistair held out his hand to her. "I'll do whatever you like if you promise that you'll let me be your friend."

Sybil rolled her eyes, but couldn't help but smile. Instead of taking his hand, she bent down and lifted his left pant leg to reveal the prosthetic. She wasn't an expert on amputees, but she could see that this was top of the line. Of course, it would be. His parents would have the influence to get him the very best.

"Why haven't you wanted to use this?" she asked.

He looked away and shrugged.

"Is it because if you do, then you have to accept what's happened to you?"

His jaw tightened and he let out a humorless laugh. "That . . . _thing_ . . . it isn't really about me. It's my parents wanting to pretend I'm whole and, more to the point, pretend that they can still control me."

"You would rather use crutches or this chair?" Sybil asked.

"I'd rather my father have to face my choices and their consequences."

Sybil smiled. "If he does, do you think he'll have a talk with my father?"

They both laughed. Sybil stood and moved to take his left arm to help him up. "Let's not think of fathers, shall we?"

They spent the next few hours walking—or trying to walk—around the front yard. Occasionally, Sybil made small talk or joked with him to take his mind off the physical exertion she was pushing him into. For the most part, however, they remained focused on the task at hand, so focused, in fact, that neither noticed a smiling Cora looking down on them from an upstairs window.

Neither did they notice when she stepped out of the house to catch another glimpse of them while she waited for the motor.

Sybil did hear the car coming up the drive (she always did) but she couldn't take her attention off the wobbling Alistair who was struggling to keep his balance, so she missed the lingering look that followed her for several seconds before Carson clearing his throat brought Tom back to his task. Still, Tom thought of her as he helped Cora onto the back seat. He thought of how wrong he had been to belittle work that she obviously took seriously, that meant so much and that gave her a taste, even if a small one, of the life that she could lead along side him. He longed now for a moment to seek her out and apologize and once again lay his heart at her feet.

Tom gave no thought to the patient Sybil was with.

He didn't, that is, until he and Cora arrived at the Dowager House, where they picked up Violet on their way to Ripon. Tom had made the drive to Ripon countless times, but never had it been more excruciating than on this morning. Because once Cora was joined by Violet in the backseat, Cora went on to explain in painful detail who Sybil's patient was and what role Cora hoped he'd come to play in Sybil's life. As mother and grandmother delighted gleefully in what they saw as an opportune and intelligent match (he was as keen on politics and liberalism as Sybil, apparently), Tom's grip on the steering wheel kept tightening.

How could he compete with someone who would have her family's love so easily?

Last night, before he'd made his silly comments as to Sybil's work, he'd listened to her explain how painful it would be to lose those closest to her.

_You say I'm a free spirit, and I hope I am. But you're asking me to give up my whole world and everyone in it._

She loved him. Of that he was sure, but perhaps he'd miscalculated. He had thought that she could endure the loss of those who would turn her away for choosing him. He thought that the rejection and the selfish, superior attitude they all carried but that was so foreign to her would harden her against them. But it seemed that casting her off was not too great a sin for Sybil to forgive. She could love _him_ from afar and be satisfied, perhaps, but she could not leave her snobbish family behind.

_It_ is _a high price. I love my parents, you don't know them. And I love my sisters and my friends._

So why _wouldn't_ she choose someone with whom she could be the woman she wanted without the painful rupture?

It took everything in Tom's being not to stop the car right then and simply walk away, leaving two well-dressed, befuddled and helpless women behind. But, of course, as soon as the thought entered his mind, he dismissed it. He couldn't leave just like that. He still needed to apologize to Sybil, and to give her the chance to tell him no. She hadn't yet, despite many opportunities to do so, and he wouldn't leave until she did.

**XXX**

When Tom pulled the car back into the drive, Sybil and Alistair were still outside. Alistair was back in his chair and Sybil was sitting on the grass looking up to him. The exertion had exhausted him, but he'd progressed considerably. He couldn't balance without his cane and couldn't go more than ten paces without help, but it was a start. He still resented the idea that his parents had pushed the prosthetic onto him without his say, but Sybil convinced him that healing and being able to live life beyond the war was about _him_ , not his parents.

"What they think or expect of you doesn't matter in the slightest if you're happy." As she said the words to Alistair, she thought of herself and Tom and the answer that she still owed him. _Why can't I follow my own advice?_

Seeing the motor come up the drive, she felt a sudden pang to make things right with Tom.

Alistair's cane lay on the grass behind his wheelchair, but Sybil made no move to get it. She stood and moved to push Alistair to the door, assuming that her mother and grandmother would enjoy chatting with him and that in his eagerness to indulge them, he'd forget the cane, leaving Sybil with the excuse of coming back outside to fetch it and speak to Tom in the process.

Sure enough, she made it to the door just as Tom was bringing the motor to a stop. Such was Cora's excitement at seeing the two together again that she made the unprecedented move of opening her door herself, leaving a flabbergasted Violet in the back seat. Violet, of course, waited for Tom to come around to help her out (paying no mind to the manner in which the chauffeur's jaw was set and his eyes were cast downward).

"Well, you two look like you've had a wonderful time together," Cora cooed.

Sybil looked curiously at her mother, but kept a smile on her face, not wanting to make Alistair uncomfortable. "Captain Pierce was exercising his legs, mama, 'wonderful' was the last thing it was. He was working very hard."

"Your daughter is a taskmaster, but an excellent nurse," Alistair said, looking up at Sybil. "You should be very proud. I believe she'd have a long, productive medical career if she continued working after the war is over."

"And why in heaven's name would she do that?" Violet asked, having joined them at the door.

"Granny—" Sybil started, but was cut off by Cora, who didn't want Alistair to have to hear another version of this same argument, not when it seemed that he and Sybil were getting on so well.

"Why don't we all come in for luncheon," Cora said. "Captain Pierce, I'll be very disappointed if you don't join us."

Noticing out of the corner of her eye that Tom was walking around to the front of the motor again, Sybil said, "Oh, we've left the cane behind. Go on and I'll join you in a moment."

Cora happily pushed Alistair inside, with Violet on their heels. Sybil ran back out to try to catch Tom, but as she reached his side of the motor, she could already see from his body language that he was not in the mood to talk.

"Branson—"

"You're going to miss luncheon with your friend," he said curtly, then pressed the accelerator and the car took off down the drive. Sybil watched it follow the familiar path to the garage.

When she had left the garage the night before, she had been angry at his words about her job. But he'd also spoken of his love, _their_ love, as being the only thing that mattered.

_The rest is detail._

Just now, he'd barely turned to look at her and couldn't get away from her fast enough. Had something changed? Sybil would have been worried if she wasn't so puzzled by his behavior.

**XXX**

"God, I thought that was never going to end," Mary said as she, Edith and Sybil walked upstairs together after luncheon. "Do you think mama and granny even remember that Matthew and William are missing?"

"Well," Edith said with a sigh, "at the risk of setting you off, now you know what it's like for us."

Mary rolled her eyes. "Of course, you'd say that."

Sybil was a few steps behind her older sisters, but walked quickly to catch up. "What are you going on about?"

"Oh, please!" Mary exclaimed in frustration.

Sybil stopped in her tracks, now in the upstairs hallway near all their rooms and put her hands on her hips angrily. "Please what?"

Edith laughed. "Sybil, you are not _that_ daft."

"Daft? What in the world are you talking about?"

Mary whipped around to face Sybil. "Our mother made us pretend all was right with the world through that interminable meal and made herself a fool fawning over Alistair Pierce because she intends to convince him to marry you! The rest of us are wracked with worry over Matthew and William and you can't even notice what's happening on your behalf?"

The rant seemed to have surprised even Mary herself, who quietly apologized and ran to her room without another word.

"Papa didn't want to tell her Matthew was missing," Edith said quietly. "I told her, but perhaps I was wrong to."

"You weren't," Sybil said, looking down at her hands, still trying to process everything that Mary had said. "When you bottle in as much as she does, it's bound to come pouring at some point. She deserved to know."

Edith smiled sadly. "Did you really have no idea? You were out walking with him all morning . . . I thought you were in on it."

Sybil rolled her eyes. "Don't be ridiculous," she said, wiping a tear she felt slip out of her left eye. "He's a patient here. I was acting as his nurse."

"Well, mama and granny have other ideas. They don't really think of you as a nurse, do they?"

Sybil sighed. "No." Sybil looked up to meet Edith's understanding eyes. "They don't always see any of us as we really are."

"They don't always see us, period."

Sybil took a step forward and met Edith in a hug. After a moment, she pulled away and said, "Thank you for not following suit. I know we don't always agree, but the only people who truly see _me_ are you, Mary and . . ."

Edith's brow crinkled with curiosity. "And who?"

But that was the moment that the reason for Tom's behavior became clear to Sybil. "Oh, God! I have to go!" She turned to run back down the stairs.

"Wait!" Edith called out. "What about Mary?"

Sybil turned back at the end of the hall. "Will you look in on her please? Tell her I'm sorry and I'll find her tonight to apologize properly. I have to report back to the head nurse in half an hour, but there's some—something I have to do first."

"What?" Edith called out again?

But Sybil didn't turn back to answer this time. She ran down the stairs, across the main hall, through the door and down the same path she had watched the car take not three hours ago with a sullen— _jealous_ —Tom at the wheel. Sybil remembered that her mother and grandmother had been in the motor with him _after_ her mother had forced Nurse Brickle to allow Sybil to care for Captain Pierce. Sybil audibly groaned and had to slow her step as she thought of what Cora and Violet might have said about herself and Alistair and all the pointless gushing and scheming he'd likely had to hear.

Sybil stopped just before getting to the garage and took a moment to compose herself. She wasn't sure what she would say but hoped that whatever her brain could concoct in the next few minutes would be enough to allay his fear that as his proposal hung between them, she was also entertaining offers from others.

Tom glanced up when he heard footsteps, but quickly turned back to what he was doing and, rather petulantly, Sybil thought, threw down a wrench that landed on the floor with a loud clatter.

Watching him, Sybil couldn't help but smile. Upon her entrance to the garage, Pratt would have straightened up and immediately asked what he could do for, "milady." But such was the comfort level between Sybil and Tom that Tom let his anger play out without thought to propriety. In this moment, she was not a member of the family that employed him, not his superior by any definition—that would have commanded his deference. Instead, by ignoring her, he was treating her as an equal, a friend—one with whom he was clearly very angry, obviously, but still a friend. So it was, oddly enough, that his cold attitude and posture actually warmed Sybil's heart.

"Are you going to say something?" He finally asked, not looking up.

"I'm not going to marry Captain Alistair Pierce," she said.

Another dropped wrench. This time, it was unintentional, and it landed square on his foot.

He grimaced. "Feck!"

Sybil couldn't help but laugh. "Are you all right? Shall I fetch you _a hot drink_?"

Tom's head whipped around and he opened his mouth to say something in retort, but the words died in his throat. Looking into her eyes, finally and for the first time all day, he could see that she was telling the truth _and_ that she was having fun with him. He could see _her_ , and the look she was giving him told him everything he needed to know about who else got such an open view into who she really was.

_No one else. Only you._

He smiled and looked down sheepishly. "I think I'll live."

Sybil smiled and took a step forward. Tom did the same. They were standing about three feet apart, both knowing that they couldn't come any closer.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly.

"For which part? The snide remarks about my job or the silly jealousy?"

"All of it. I know how important your job is and I know that you put your heart and soul into it. It was wrong of me to suggest that there's no value in what you do here. That's certainly not what I think."

Sybil gave him a small smile. "I know it isn't."

"But I do think you're capable of more . . . I hope you know how much you could give the world and how much you could do for yourself and other people if you let yourself walk beyond the shadow of this house. You don't have to leave with me, if that's not what you want, but you _should_ leave. It may be one that's lined with gold, but a cage is what this house is to you, and you . . . you deserve more than looking out the window and wondering what's out there. No matter how well they mean or how much they love you, that's all your family will ever let you have." Tom paused and took a breath. "What I said yesterday—I wish I hadn't, but I'm human. I hope with all my heart that your life turns out just the way you want it, but I also wish I could spend that life with you. And not knowing whether that'll be the case, I am left to wish I could be with you now, the way they get to be."

"My patients? The men who've survived the horrors of war and likely wish they'd never had to come here?"

"Like I said, I'm human. Desire isn't always rational."

Sybil blushed again. She looked him up and down. The grease stains of the sleeves of the shirt that he'd rolled up to his elbows, revealing his strong forearms. The dark green material of his uniform trousers and the way they hugged his hips. His collar flaring out without his tie holding it in place. The way one tiny strand of hair was coming forward over his forehead in spite of the pomade that was holding the rest down. The way his calloused fingertips warmed her hands whenever they came in contact. The way he, a radical Irishman, understood her so thoroughly. The way he was looking at her right now.

_No,_ Sybil agreed silently. _Desire is not rational at all._

"Captain Pierce," Sybil began quietly. "He suffers his father as much as I suffer mine. He's political and inclined to support the liberals. I think you'd enjoy his company."

"So much the worse," Tom said, turning back to the motor and away from her, not keen to hear her discuss the man her mother would have Sybil marry tomorrow if the inclination existed.

"What do you mean?" Sybil asked.

"All of the things they loathe in me and disapprove of in you would be forgotten, or looked on with fondness even, because of his wealth and position and no other reason."

Sybil looked down. It was a truth she could not defend her family against. After a moment, she said, "You're wrong, you know."

"About what?"

"You think the fact I haven't given you an answer means I may marry someone else who asks, but the question I'm considering isn't what you think it is."

Tom turned to face her again.

Sybil looked down at her fidgety hands. "Before the war, I knew the life that awaited me—marriage to a man my parents approved of and an endless string of charity luncheons and garden shows. If I got lucky, he'd support my interest in women's rights and allow for some measure of political involvement. In other words, I'd not have a life that would make me truly fulfilled or happy, but I'd be comfortable enough that I couldn't really complain. Then war came, and everything started falling apart. I didn't want to have lost friends for a change in my future to be made possible, but that's how it happened. On that drive to York, I tried to focus on the people I knew who'd been lost and how I wanted to honor them in some way by aiding in the war effort. But in truth all I could think about was whether I could do the job. I thought maybe, if I could do it, I might have the wherewithal to lead a different life altogether, make the choice _not_ to have a husband, commit myself to the things that _I_ wanted rather than the things some man wanted for me. It was thrilling to realize I might not have to get married at all."

"And then I asked you to marry me," Tom cut in with a small smile.

Sybil smiled back. "It wasn't particularly good timing."

Tom chuckled.

Sybil took one step closer. "The whole way there, I was contemplating, for the first time, the possibility of a truly independent life. The idea that I could be my own person and not merely who my husband made me."

"That's not how marriage has to be," Tom said quietly. "You have to know that isn't how it would be with _us_."

"I do, which brings us back to the question."

Tom smiled. "What question is that?"

"The one I still need to answer. That question isn't whether or not I'll marry _you_. It's whether or not I'll marry period."

Tom narrowed his eyes a bit. "I'm not sure I understand."

"I don't know how long we have until this war ends, but it has changed so many things already, I need to wait until it's done, to see how the dust settles and to know with certainty what the choices before me really are. I don't know if marriage should be in the cards for me. But . . . if I _do_ decide to marry, the question of who it would be has already been settled."

Understanding came over Tom, and he felt relief and love—all over again.

Sybil took his hand for a brief moment and squeezed it before letting go again. "I know that's not an answer, not the one you're looking for anyway, but I want to be honest, and I want you to know that you have no reason to ever be jealous of anyone."

He took a step toward her, but she stepped back. The boundary that she had momentarily erased, tenuous as it was, became present between them once more.

"I have to start my shift now. Will you come to the concert tonight?"

"I will."

"Good."

And with that, she left.

Walking back to the house, Sybil felt light and free.

Inside the garage, Tom did too. There were many months left to wonder what the end of the war would bring, but none in which he'd ever doubt her.


End file.
